Mot fo, when vice does her feign'd fmiles difplay, Like Delilah's careffes to betray.

Virtue's alone the chafte and real friend,

On whom th' enamour'd foul fecurely can depend.
She steel has prov'd throughout the tedious tage
Of mortal life, and dang'rous pilgrimage,
To all who on her conduct have rely'd,
The best companion, and most faithful guide.
Our shadowing cloud in fortune's darting light,
Our shining pillar in affliction's night;

Our heav'nly manna, when for food diftrefs'd;
Our fountain, when with fcorching thirst opprefs'd.
She makes our wilderness all blooming gay,
And scatters roses in the defart way.

The very thorns that make her trav❜lers bleed,
Are but remembrancers to mend their speed,
Left too much ease their farther care disband,
And they stop short, fhort of the promis'd land.
Ev'n am'rous youth with her fecurely fteer,
Where Syrens deck'd in all their charms appear,
Of Circe's ifle the tempting profpect fhun,
When th' unadvis'd to fmiling ruin run.
By her the beauteous fex are taught to know
Both what to heav'n, and to themselves they owe;
Honour, and spotlefs innocence to prize,
Above the triumph of their conqu❜ring eyes.
How difmal dear the bargain when they fell
Thofe gems for ought that does on earth excel,
That, oh! 'tis life for death, and heav'n for hell.
But then in largest streams her bleffings flow,
When life grown bankrupt can no more bestow;
She gives what mortal nature never gave,
Immortal blifs, and life beyond the grave.

Whose armour is his honeft thought,
And fimple truth his utmost skill?

II.

Whose paffions not his masters are;
Whofe foul is ftill prepar'd for death;
Unty'd unto the world by care

Of public fame, or private breath.

III.

Who envies none that change doth raise,
Nor vice hath ever understood;

How deepest wounds are giv❜n by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.

IV.

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose confcience is his ftrong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatt'rers feed,
Nor ruin make oppreffors great.

V.

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace, than gifts to lend ;

And entertains the harmless day,

With a religious book, or friend.

VI.

This man is freed from fervile bands
Of hope to rife, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, tho' not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.

CHRIST' PASSION. Taken out of a Greek Ode.

By Mr. Cowley.

Nough, my mufe, of earthly things,
And inspirations but of wind;

Take up thy lute, and to it bind

Loud and everlafting ftrings;
And on 'em play, and to 'em fing,
The happy mournful stories,
The lamentable glories,
Of the great crucified King.

Moun

Mountanous heap of wonders! which doft rife
'Till earth thou joineft with the skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,
To be half feen by mortel eye.

How fhall I grafp this boundless thing!
What fhall I play! what fhall I fing!
I'll fing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,

Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed faints aWith all their comments can explain;

[bove,

How all the whole world's life, to die did not difdain.

II.

I'll fing the fearchlefs depths of the compaffion divine,
The depths uniathom'd yet

By reafon's plummet, and the line of wit:
Too light the plummet, and too fhort the line:
How the eternal father did beftow

His own eternal for a ransom for his foe.

I'll fing aloud, that all the world may hear
The triumph of the buried conqueror :
How hell was by its pris'ner captive led,
And the great flayer, death, flain by the dead.
III.

Methinks I hear of murthered men the voice,
Mixt with the murtherers confused noise,'
Sound from the top of Calvary,

My greedy eyes, fly up the hil, and fee
Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three:
Oh! how unlike the others he,

Look how he bends his gentle head with bleffings from

the tree!

His gracious hands, ne'er stretcht but to do good,
Are nail'd to the infamous wood;

And finful man does fondly bind

The arms which he extends t'embrace all human kind.
IV.

Unhappy man, can'ft ftand by and fee

All this as patient as he?

Since he thy fins does bear,

Make thou his fufferings thy own,
And weep, and figh, and groan,
And beat thy breast, and tear
Thy garments and thy hair,

And let thy grief, and let thy love
Thro' all thy bleeding bowels move.
Doft thou not fee thy prince in purple clad all o'er?
Not purple brought from the Sidonian fhore,
But made at home with richer gore.
Doft thou not fee the roses, which adorn
Thy thorny garland by him worn?
Doft thou not fee the livid traces
Of the fharp fcourges rude embraces !
If yet thou feelest not the smart
Of thorns and scourges in thy heart,
If yet that be not crucified,

Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his fide.

Open, oh!

V.

open wide the fountains of thine eyes,

And let 'em call

Their stock of moisture forth, where'er it lyes:
For this will ask it all,

'Twould all, alas! too little be,

Tho' thy falt tears came from a fea;
Canft thou deny him this, when he
Has open'd all his vital fprings for thee.
Take heed, for by his fides myfterious flood
May well be understood,

That he will still require fome waters to his blood.

THOUGHTS in SICKNESS.

I.

M. Thy power and wisdom in my goodly frame,

Y God, my Maker, humbly I adore

I view the work, and bless thy facred name, Thou took'ft this body from the common ftore; A rude and undigested mass before:

And lo! all art and order it became.`

II.

And when thou had'ft completed ev'ry part,

Had'ft taught each fpring and wheel their deftin'd ufe, And made a purple flood of vital juice

Rufh thro' the channels of the active heart,

And

And life and vigour to the whole impart,
Thou an immortal foul did'st then infuse.

III.

And both, dear God, are still at thy difpofe;
For as thy awful word cou'd first unite
Things in their nature strangely oppofite,
So with the fame can'st thou diffolve the close,
And each unto its native region goes,

Earth back to earth, my foul to realms of light.
IV.

I know thy providence difpofes all;

I know that whatfoe'er thou doft is' best:
O let me then in thy appointments reft!
Does God pre-order all things, great and finall?
No nail, nor dropping hair without him fall;
And yet fhall any change my peace molest ?
V.

If thou haft business for me here below,
I know thou foon wilt all my pains expel.
My fickness foon controul, and speak me well:
If not, why fhall I think it hard to go;
To leave this naufeous world of fin and woe,
And in immortal joy and glory dwell?

VI.

I will not, no, I will not, Lord, repine,

Tho' now thou please to fummon me away, To bid me die, and leave this house of clay : Thy pleafure, as 'tis juft, fhall govern mine, To thee, the owner, I my all refign:

Command whate'er thou wilt, I chearfully obey.

L

The RAPTURE. By a young Lady.

I.

ORD! if one diftant glimpse of thee
Thus elevate the foul,

In what a height of ecftaly
Do thofe bleft fpirits roll,

II.